


home videos

by channexmogar



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety Disorder, Awesamdude and CaptainPuffy are Roommates, Cara | CaptainPuffy and Jschlatt are Siblings, F/F, Family Bonding, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Internal Monologue, Jschlatt Angst (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt is Toby Smith | Tubbo's Parent, Kid Fic, M/M, Multi, New York City, Protective Cara | CaptainPuffy, Toxic Relationships, will update with chapters (i'm bad at tags :( )
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:42:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29738214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/channexmogar/pseuds/channexmogar
Summary: schlatt wakes up in a bed that isn't his, in an apartment that isn't his, in a body he wishes wasn't his. he's trying his hardest to be a good person, raising tubbo, staying social, keeping everything down...but he keeps hitting these bumps. these bumps take him to dark places and really, he isn't sure if he even wants to keep trying because at some point, he'll just crack. he doesn't want anyone to see him crack.
Relationships: Cara | CaptainPuffy & Sam | Awesamdude, Cara | CaptainPuffy/Niki | Nihachu, Jschlatt & Minx | JustAMinx (Video Blogging RPF), Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo, Jschlatt/Unknown Character, Ranboo & Toby Smtih | Tubbo, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, will update as chapters go on
Comments: 7
Kudos: 69





	1. home alone and lost in new york

**Author's Note:**

> hey im trying this out! i wrote this at 2 am so i hope it makes sense :( if you have anything you want to see schlatt and tubbo do please don't hesitate to request/comment

_Get up._

Schlatt drags his head up from somewhere unfamiliar—certainly not his pillow; this one is much less flat and warm. His gaze is hazy and his head is pounding as he squints up at the bright light of morning in a sweatshirt that he doesn’t think is his, one shoe on, the other slipped away in some dank corner of his rotting memory. He contorts around, twisting around in a comforter that he definitely doesn’t own, and Jesus, where is he?

_Last night…_

His hand creeps up his face, rubbing sleep from his eyes before fingering through his hair, finding it all out of sorts, a wave threw this way and that. The longer he thinks about where he is, the fuzzier the photos of the previous night grow; he had been out, and then he had been in, and now he’d woken up in a high-rise apartment. Part of him wonders if it’s pity that got him here, but on second thought, there’s no way it’s pity. 

_Whose fucking apartment is this?_

He fists around for his phone in his pockets and comes up empty—slipping out from underneath much warmer covers he plants his feet on the ground—before looking around the room. It’s spacious, probably bigger than his own moldy apartment just in the small room, and his phone is on the nightstand.

_7:04._

That’s what the clock says, at least, as he unlocks the old thing with his passcode and skims through notifications. No new emails, no new calls… _no, wait, five missed calls. Five missed calls?_

Perplexion paints his tired face and he yawns to try to get the effects of the previous night out of his system, but he can smell it on his breath, and it’s clearly there to stay. He checks his text messages, and-

_Oh, shit._

It’s 7:04, and he’s not home to take Tubbo to school.

Schlatt finds his bike shoved into a stairwell somewhere, but not his shoe; he has to cut his losses if he wants to make the trek from _wherever the hell_ he is back to his apartment without any bumps. He’s always cutting his losses, it seems—after all, he’s already accepted that his son is just going to be tardy again, but _damn it,_ he’s trying his best here and his head is pounding. Distantly he remembers a night a week or a year ago (it all blends together) where he’d pulled this stunt and remembered sunglasses, only to discover them shattered in pieces the next morning. Never again, he’d said.

 _Never again,_ he repeats now.

He runs past the front lobby and out the door, immediately hooking a left because the longer he’s down there, the more he remembers about this place; he’s been there before. He’s definitely been there before, and he’s been left in that room with the comforter set before. The man takes a running start alongside his bike before taking off with it, cutting corners left and right, and trying to keep track of the time in his head.

_I need a fucking watch._

_...Oh yeah. My watch got stolen._

Schlatt’s chest is heaving after even a minute of solid pedaling, perspiration with an alcohol content dripping down his face and he groans, hating himself for the bright light and empty stomach.  
If he pushes himself, which he always does, he makes it home in fifteen minutes, dragging his bike up the dark flight of stairs once, twice, and halfway up the third time before he gets woozy and has to stop, hot nausea making his knees lock and he has to sit on the disgusting, gum-infested stairs. He leans against the wall and gags, but there’s nothing to come up, dry heaving in a stairwell clutching his bike like it’ll carry him to god-damn heaven. He can hear his blood pumping in his ears and he feels woozy, like he should’ve stayed in bed a little longer and let the kid skip school today.

_Fuck. Fuck._

His hands are shaking, drenched and he pulls himself up with the wall as his guide, dragging his feet across the gross tile until he finally reaches his apartment, pretty number 216, and he digs in his pockets for his keys.

His… keys.

The keys that he definitely has.  
  


_God fucking hates me._

He slams his head on the door and slides down it, limp weight sending him down to the ground once again. He thumps rhythmically against the door, eyes squeezing shut as two hands drag up his scruffy face and he says a string of curses it’s better not to see put here.

Schlatt digs his phone out and stares down at it, digging around in his mess of saved contacts, looking for a locksmith when suddenly the deadbolt twists and the door opens behind him.

He falls to the ground, not exactly able to support his weight under such mental strain. His phone drops onto his chest and he squints up to see what kind of guardian angel has come to his aid on this bright, sick Tuesday morning.

When he sees sweet brown eyes and light brown waves the color of chestnuts dangling over him, a chuckle slips past his lips; he smiles and twists around so that he can pick himself up. He gets to his knees and sits back on them, looking up at the small boy that’s barely an inch taller than him like this.

“You’re not ‘sposed to open the door when you’re home alone, Tubbs. Remember?” Schlatt asks, trying to sound stern but it’s clear he’s just joking around.

The sweet boy with rosy cheeks, whose hand is in his mouth— _God, one of these days I’ll break that habit of his_ —hides his smile in his sleeve. He’s happy to see him; he’s always happy to see him, even if Schlatt can’t fathom a reason why. “But it was you!” He insists in that five-year-old way of insisting, figuring everything is fine because Schlatt is here.   
_Yep. But it was just me._

Schlatt stifles a chuckle and reaches around, taking the kid into his arms and shoving his face in his shoulder, getting the hug back with scrawny little underfed arms and a giggle that breathes life into his achy lungs and empty stomach. “G’morning,” He drawls out in a voice devoid of snark, reeking instead of whiskey and bittersweet devotion.

Tubbo pulls away to look at him, asking, “Where’d you go? I gotta go to school,” and Schlatt just wanted to say _fuck it_ and disappear into himself a little while longer.

But instead, he lies and says, “Well, bud, I was trying to go get breakfast, but they were out of donuts down at Mike’s. Must’ve been a busy day.”

_I hate when I do that._

The doe-eyed child is as dense as ever, has no reason not to believe him. “Oh no,” He pouts, and Schlatt finds the will to stand, bringing Tubbo up with him. He takes one unsure step and then the second one is stronger; the older man pulls his bike in and shuts the door, locking it up tight before finally depositing the gremlin down on the floor. An idea comes to his groggy, hungover mind—

_He can miss one day. I’ll write him a doctor’s note or something…_

—and he looks down at his son with a tired smile. “Do you _really_ want to go to school today, or would you like it better if we watched movies and ordered pizza?”

Pizza was like heroin to the young kid, and he knew he’d gotten out of a tough situation the moment the sweet boy’s eyes blew wide with excitement. “Pizza?” He asks, mouth opening as if he can already taste the treat that was becoming a rarity as of late.

Schlatt, leaning against the wall, jabs a finger onto their bulletin board, tugging off a coupon he’d managed to snag guaranteeing them a discounted price on their usual order. “Yep.”

Bouncing on his toes, the young boy’s hands waggled and then clapped excitedly, a toothy grin spilling out of his features. “Can we make a fort?”

_I might throw up if I have to exert any effort._

“Of course, kiddo. I’ll set it up. You go look through the tapes, alright?”

He saluted and skittered off towards the tote that held their thrift-store VHS tapes; Schlatt gave the coupon a skim and set it down on the dingy counter of the kitchen, fisting a hand through his thick hair before checking his phone.

_One new message. God. What now._

From ‘DO NOT FUCKING ANSWER’:

**_Hey. ur keys r here_ **

Schlatt rolled his eyes and quickly tapped back—

**_Yeah. I’m aware._ **

**_…_ **

“Daddy!” Tubbo called from the living room. Schlatt thought to dig out one of the water bottles sitting under his sink to hopefully clear the ache in his head and thrumming in his veins. 

He cracked it open as he called back, “What?” and looked down to see the response on his phone.

**_Want me 2 drop it off?_ **

**_Miss u already_ **

“Can we watch Muppets?” The boy asked in his little shrill voice, peeking out from behind the couch and holding the coveted VHS tape in its sleeve. Looking up from his phone, Schlatt couldn’t even think to suppress the smile bubbling up. Seeing the other with the old tape, he gave in with a nod, waving at him to put it in as he gulped down water like his life depended on it. He tapped back a cold response:

**_I’ll get it myself. Later. Is that alright?_ **

**_With Tubs_ **

The response is instantaneous.

**_Tonight?_ **

There comes a moment of hesitation from this; Schlatt doesn’t _want_ to have a repeat of whatever in God’s name happened last night. He doesn’t want to go out again—he doesn’t want to keep leaving the young kid alone in the apartment just begging to get kidnapped. Despite this, he eventually…

...Agrees.

**_Tonight. 10?_ **

**_Perfect_ **

Instinct tells Schlatt to crush the water bottle the moment he’s done with it and he does, squeezing the thing into a compact little cylinder before tossing it in the trash can. He passes by Tubbo, watching him work the VCR connected to their rinky-dink television like a champ, and goes to get his coveted blanket from his room.

The apartment is ridiculously small, and it’s why he’s embarrassed to have people over. Admittedly, it’s NYC—of course the apartment is going to be small. The issue arises, however, when he thinks about how Tubbo doesn’t have his own room, Tubbo doesn’t have his own toys, Tubbo doesn’t have a bed, sleeps on the couch instead. It used to be the opposite; Schlatt used to rule the couch, but he’s too tall for it, and it’s harder to coil up when more often than not he ends up waking up on the floor. 

His room is down the short little stub of a hallway, across from their bathroom that he’s 99.9% sure has mold. He’d made a note somewhere on their bulletin board to call about it, but that was weeks ago, and any money that could’ve paid to get it cleaned is now swimming through his bloodstream and paying bartenders’ wages. He gathers up his blanket, a weighted thing from fits of anxiety, the most expensive thing in the house save for Tubbo himself, and drags it out to their living room. It’s heavy, and it doesn’t feel like his, but it’ll suffice for a blanket fort.

_This thing could suffocate me. I wish I’d returned it._

But he drapes it in front of the couch, between two folding chairs anyways, and adjusts it so that they can still see their TV that he had to practically rebuild in order to get it working. His phone buzzes and it’s Tubbo’s elementary school, reminding him of his child’s absence. 

_As if he’s not right here._

He ignores it.

The thought of _Tonight_ looms over him in a heavy, fuzzy veil of drinks and stolen kisses, but for now, he eases himself onto the floor and leans back against the couch drearily. It’s barely 8:00 now, and he’s already so tired, so stressed, so anxious and fitful but—

Tubbo plants himself on his father’s lap, and the opening chords of a 1979 classic begin playing through the TV. 

_It’s gonna be okay. Gotta stick it out for him, gotta rough it for him._

Schlatt eases up, exhaling a breath he wasn’t aware he’d been choking himself with. Eyes gazing towards the screen as tens of felt-coated puppets talk about movies and mayhem and being funny, kind and easy, he reaches up and pats the young boy in his lap on the head.

He giggles and leans back, further into the only person he knows unfalteringly to depend on.

“You better sing along this time,” The older man teases, muttering because he knows if he even raises his voice slightly he’ll be shushed by the movie-obsessed kindergartener.

Tubbo’s face flushes red. “I sing along every time,” He said proudly.

And Schlatt smiles, lounging back, feeling more than alright for once in his miserable life. “Well. It better be good.”

 _Yeah…_ he thinks, despite it all. _It’s gonna be okay._


	2. after hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> schlatt's wasted the day away; why stop when the sun goes down.

_ Get up. _

Schlatt wakes with a start, hearing the click of the tape in the VCR finish, the screen returning to a cold, bright blue. Tubbo’s in his lap, coiled up in a ball and snoring loudly, and he gently wraps an arm around him to keep the other feeling safe. 

_ That snoring really can’t be good for him. _

He looks around with a squint, finding the strewn-about empty pizza box from their lunch just cast over to the side. It’s empty, which means it wouldn’t last them until dinner, but he could have figured that was just false hope.

_ Man, that really was just false hope. _

Checking his phone, the school day is definitely over. It’s 4:45 on the dot, and his little buddy has scored him one missed call from the kindergarten teacher, two from ‘Phil tubbo friend dad’ and one from another number he doesn’t want to answer. He sighs, rubbing at his head that finally stopped aching from the previous night’s escapades.

_ Let’s not make tonight a repeat. Agreed? Agreed.  _

He slips his hands under his son’s arms and lifts him up, careful as he stirs to lay him gently on the couch. Tubbo’s eyes open and he hums, “Hmm?” and Schlatt puts a finger to his lips. 

“I’m just gonna shower and call a couple people. I’m all…” He pinches his nose for emphasis and revels in the giggle that spills out of the other’s mouth, “...gross.” 

The grin that forms is enough to make every second worth it. The eyes close once again, drifting off into dreamland, and Schlatt disappears down the hallway and turns into their cramped, dim, and dingy bathroom.

He shuts and locks the door behind him, turning on the water and cringing as it runs brown before slowly becoming clear. 

_ Gross. _

While he waits for the water to get at least lukewarm, he pries out his phone, scrolls a little indecisively, and eventually agrees to recall his old friend ‘Phil tubbo friend dad’, knowing full well the connection was deeper than that, but still too lazy to change it even after all this time. He puts it on speaker but still puts the phone to his ear, knowing the sound on his phone was bugged and this was the only way he’d even remotely be able to hear.

It’s still crinkly when his friend answers and croaks out, “Hello?”

_ Is he in the car? _

“Are you in the car?” Schlatt asks, brow furrowing in surprise as he rubs at his scruff thoughtfully. He can hear at least one hyperactive child babbling in the background, which must be Tommy, because it’s always Tommy whose volume increases exponentially the moment Phil’s phone presses to his ear.

“No, mate. At home, actually. Will’s trying to practice so, you know what that means,” He replies, exasperated. 

_ Maybe I shouldn’t… _

“You called earlier?” He asks, sitting on the small counter connected to his sink, phone balanced between his ear and shoulder as he takes the moment alone. For some reason, when he’s on the phone, his throat gets all tight and scratchy; words feel heavy in his mouth and he hates sounding the way he sounds. He bites down on his lips and his toes curl nervously.

The blonde on the line doesn’t seem to notice anything, which is a saving grace in itself. “Oh, yeah. Toms said Tubbo didn’t come to school today?” He asks, and Schlatt can practically smell judgment in his gentle, patient voice that can never do wrong. 

_ Please don’t. Please don’t.  _

“I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t sick. I can bring soup?” He went on, and Schlatt swallowed at the generosity. “See, Will’s in a culinary class at his school. Very excited about it. I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“Oh, uh, no.” He said, and his voice felt bitter and in need of a drink. “He’s fine. Just deserved the day off.”

The conversation goes silent. The pit in Schlatt’s stomach twists and grows like a craving, making his hands fidget and fuck, he almost drops his phone,

Phil clears his throat. “J? Still there?”

“Oh.” He swallows. “Yeah. Sorry,” He says, and he doesn’t think he should’ve called back after it was missed twice, even if this guy is the only person who gets him other than…

_ Don’t finish that sentence. _

“Hey, uh, can I cash in a favor, though?” Schlatt wills himself to ask, knowing he’d hate himself even more if he didn’t ask. 

“Shoot.” Beyond the phone, Tommy is practically screaming, probably banging pots and pans before someone else yells for him to shut it and things go quiet.

He sighs. “I’ve got to go pick up a couple things tonight. Would you mind if Tubs stayed there until I got it handled?”

“You’re just picking up a couple of things?” The other asks, and there’s an air of knowing judgment that makes Schlatt want to throw himself against the wall and start the entire day over.

He’d never have the strength; instead, he exhales, saying dejectedly, “Yes, just picking up a couple things.”

There’s a click of the tongue echoing through the phone, as if Phil needs to decide before he finally concedes, saying, “Yeah, he can stay. He’s welcome any time. You both are.”

“Thanks,” The other responds, and it feels like a smile pricks at the corners of his mouth. “Can I… in like, an hour? I’ve got to shower and he’s not dressed.”

“Whenever,” Phil replies coolly.

_ I want to be calm and collected like Phil. I really do. _

Schlatt thanks him and hangs up, and the water has been running long enough to go from lukewarm to cold all over again. 

_ Ugh.  _

He’ll live, and get over it, and that’ll be that, he figures. 

An hour later, Schlatt is riding his bike through the evening skyline, his son shoved in the front basket and strapped in with a makeshift belt that was certainly not safe, but Tubbo was used to holding on for his life. They made one more quick turn—one that made the young boy with bright eyes that sparkled wide with fright yelp and then giggle as everything was fine—and then skidded to a stop in front of one of the larger buildings. Schlatt shoved his bike into the bike rack out front before reaching and pricking the backpack-wearing gremlin from the basket with a smile.    
“What’s our time, kid?” Schlatt asked, balancing him on his hip as he headed for the door.

Tubbo held up the small stopwatch he’d been holding tightly. “Five-Two,” He said, reading it carefully, uncertainty speckling his gaze.

The older man glanced down at it, reaching with his free hand to shove the baseball cap he wore further onto his head. “Two-Five, bud. Twenty-five minutes,” He corrected, mulling over the number in his head. He tilted his head back and forth thoughtfully before shrugging and saying, “Not our worst time, I guess.” before walking in.

He took the elevator—because Phil’s building had elevators—up to the fourth floor, placing the young boy down as the mechanism sent them up, up, up. Tubbo jumped as he did, stomping his feet and enjoying, for the moment, when he felt like he was flying.

_ Fly away, bumblebee. Fly away. _

When the doors opened, it’s a two minute walk over to Phil’s door, and Schlatt doesn’t even have to knock before a moody 13-year-old pries the door open. There are dark curls of hair in his face, blocking his eyes from the other, and Schlatt feels some odd sort of kinship for whatever’s going through the kid’s head. 

_ Me too, kid. Me too.  _

The kid pries the door open and shoves his hair out of his face, calling out, “Daa--d, they’re here,” before he grabs the guitar waiting by the door and disappears behind another doorway. 

Schlatt chuckles. “See ya, Wilbur,” and he’s certain the kid doesn’t hear him. A familiar blonde with tired blue eyes and a hyperactive child on his hip appears in his place and he smiles, waving bashfully at the other. In a second, Tubbo is latched onto his leg, even if he’s been here tens of times before, and is staring up at his best friend.

Tommy, blonde, smiling crookedly, practically crawls down his father to get to Tubbo. He’s taller than the latter, but not by much. He stops just before the smaller boy and waits as patiently as he can manage, bouncing on his feet as the other finally detaches with a pat on the back from Schlatt. “Go on,” He says gently, and that’s all it takes.

They both shoot off further into the apartment. 

_ See you later, bud. _

Alone for the moment, Phil looks up at Schlatt with a little smile. “Do you have time for tea?” He asks, and Schlatt really doesn’t, but any time spent drinking tea means less time drinking other things with other people, so he swallows and nods. He should’ve had a bit more water this morning—there’s a woozy feeling in his head that feels all too familiar as he steps in and shuts the door behind him, sitting at the small table he’d had dinner at least thrice before. Phil and the kids didn’t eat at his apartment; he didn’t want them to see it.

Phil turns on his heel and disappears into the kitchen, making things just like Schlatt liked them without asking. “How are you?” he calls, and his throat tightens in response.

_ Oh, he knows. He knows exactly what I did last night. _

“Tired,” he responds, thrumming his fingers on the table restlessly. When he comes back, with two cups set on little saucers, he perks up, smiling and thanking him. “How’s Techno?” He shoots back, preferring to keep the small talk on anyone that wasn’t him.

“Doing alright, I’ve heard. Very busy, very tired,” He replies. Techno was Phil’s oldest, adopted just after Wilbur was born. He’d gotten accepted into a college across the country and was long gone, and to say Schlatt was jealous of him was an understatement. He’d never admit it, though.

_ Lucky bastard. _

“Not bad,” He shoots back before downing half of his tea in one gulp. Never one for sips, he couldn’t exactly hold himself back; he sighs in relief at the taste, letting it wash over him like it was something else, he was someone else, he was somewhere else. It was relief.

“He’ll be back for Christmas. I’m sure he’s doing just fine,” Phil says, peering at Schlatt with an air of concern, one that rolled down his throat and fell into the knot in his stomach. He wasn’t an idiot; he saw it every time, and it made him sit up in his seat and tighten his grip on the cup. “Now… about tonight…”

“It’s not what you think it is,” Schlatt insists-

“Well, what do I think it is?”

He frowns. Tugging the brim of his cap over his eyes he says with a sigh, “I’m not going to drink. I left my keys at someone’s house and I’m going to get them.”

The older man nods curtly, sipping at his own cup carefully. “Is this the someone who-”

_ Yes. _

“No. Not him,” He lies easy, flinging his hat off his head and onto the table. 

Phil nods gently, concern becoming compassion even though Schlatt was too stubborn to look him in the eye and see it. “...Alright then,” He says, humming in approval as he nods again. “Well, don’t let me keep you, mate.”

_ Please keep me. Take this weight off my shoulders and make it swift. _

Schlatt nods as well, finishing his cup before standing. “We should have dinner again at some point,” The other man continues, blond locks that stuck out at odd angles being smoothed out by a hand. The younger man in a stained sweatshirt with still-wet-hair ignores the slightest sound of pity. 

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders, checking his phone and heading for the door. His hand wraps around the knob and holds there for a moment, feeling lies bubble in his throat about where he was going, what he was doing, whether or not he’d be back tonight, tomorrow, or ever at all.

_ I want to run away,  _ he thinks.  _ I want my mind to run away to somewhere warm. _

His mind does not run away. It is confined to his body, and his body is tired and needs a drink. 

He twists it open and steps through.

“Bye,” He calls, waving, taking note of the fact he didn’t call for Tubbo to properly tell him goodbye. He shuts the door behind him and can feel Phil watching him through. He heads back downstairs—and he does take the stairs this time, because he doesn’t think he deserves to use an elevator—one step at a time and, passing through the lobby, gathers his bike. 

He has hours to spend before he has to meet him, but for some reason, the only thing he wants to do is go far from here. 

He checks his phone and thinks to send a text to someone, anyone who might get it. He sees Puffy, his sister, whose messages have gone unresponded to for about a week:

**_J, i found this really good program_ **

**_You wanna check it out?_ **

**_How’s my bumblebee??_ **

**_Are you ever going to respond_ **

**_Don’t make me come down there and get you myself_ **

**_Sam and I always have room for you both._ **

Sam—that’s her roommate—has a similar-looking thread of texts. Schlatt just can’t bring himself to respond; every time he tries, he sounds awkward, and it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. So no, he can’t text them, not now. 

He hovers over another name, but doesn’t click on it. He knows what he said in those. 

_ God. I fucked that up. _

He shoves his phone back in his pocket and grips the handles of his bike, fidgeting with them before taking a running start and taking off down the street on it, pedaling until it hurt as he just disappeared for a while, riding somewhere that he’d like to say he didn’t know. He knew. 

_ I know where I’m going. _

Freddy’s isn’t far from here, and he knows his friend is working because she told him he was the night before. He promises himself that things will be alright and that he’ll just get dinner and talk to her at the bar, but the lies are sickening and make him crave even more.

_ Please, hold on,  _ he thinks. _ Please, keep me. I can’t keep myself. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let's talk about this chapter  
> tumblr @channexmogar  
> twt @channexmogar  
> discord channexmogar#1337


	3. ten things i hate about you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> schlatt has a rough night. which.... isn't a surprise, given the circumstances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY this is just a warning that things get kind of... intense this chapter? nothing happens but he has a run in with a really bad guy. i promise the next chapter is lighter and full of happy times :)

_ Get up. _

  
  
  


_...I said, Get up. _

Schlatt’s been sitting at this bar stool for hours. He can’t quite remember what time he got here, the feeling is fuzzy and coils in his stomach alongside the fries he’s been shoving in his mouth alongside a shot too many of something refreshingly painful. The two mix in his stomach, combining, and he should be going somewhere.

Minx bartends here; that’s the friend he’d come to just ‘check-in’ with while he waited for the dreaded hour to pass. But then that dreaded hour was filled with sweet whiskey and drinks that make Schlatt’s nerves gone haywire feel docile, at peace. He doesn’t like the taste but he likes not feeling the aching neck and shoulders that come from being alive.

Minx comes over to him like she always does when she’s got a moment of reprieve, tops him off, and rests her head in her hands looking at him. Her voice is bitter when she says, “You’re a fuckin’ mess,” but her eyes are sweet and Schlatt wishes he could be her.

_ Minx gets it, I bet. Minx doesn’t have to fucking… I don’t know.  _

He grins at her. “I’m your mess, Minx. Live a little!” and the room is spinning, spinning, spinning, just the way he likes it.

She touches his cheek and he presses his flushed face into it like it’s a god-damn pillowcase. And then she bats at him like a bum.

“You’re not even ‘sposed to be here anymore. You keep coming back,” She scolds, waving at a couple of new people that step through the doors and confidently swagger her direction.

Schlatt’s anxiety might feel docile, but his anger and confidence have become alight in a sickening way--and he makes a gawking, offended face. “I like to see my friend!” He says, hot anger making his mouth clamp shut and he swallows.

It’s a long, heavy moment before he takes a breath and continues, “I tip you, don’t fucking… patronize me.”

Minx has to leave; she always has to leave, Schlatt notes dimly, and that’s why he’s always chasing after her like she’s another beverage. Or maybe because she  _ brings  _ the beverages. Either way her mean touch becomes sweet, made-up eyes compassionate behind the dark eyeliner and falsies, and she sighs an exhale. “You don’t have to pay to be my fuckin’ friend, Schlatt,” she says, taking his glass away--it was empty already--and slipping back down to take care of more optimistic folk.

With how cloudy his head is, the words shouldn’t mean anything. For some reason, though, they do--and it scares him that they do. Schlatt wants it to be a fleeting thought that sends him into a full temper tantrum, slamming his hands on the bar and getting mad when he nearly slipped out of the barst-

_ Oh fuck. _

Schlatt nearly slips from the barstool on his way out.

Now, alone, he walks through the door and goes to gather up his bike from whatever stand he’d managed to hide it in this time. He doesn’t stumble when he walks, but he is not confident either; not built for the cold, fend-for-yourself personality of new york even when he’s pleasantly intoxicated and feels like he can finally think clearly.

Minx’s words sound like his fucking sister, Puffy’s, and he hates them because he’s been ignoring Puffy, but doesn’t want to ignore Minx. He doesn’t want to ignore Phil--but, then again, that’s because ignoring Phil hurts Tubbo. Minx and Tubbo met once, after a hard night of drinking between the both of them, and she… doesn’t like kids. He respects that. She respects him. So it goes.

Schlatt’s bike is still in the rack about three blocks from the bar itself, and he’s thankful because one look at his phone tells him he really,  _ really  _ needs to get going. This morning--when he woke up in the same apartment he was pedaling wobbly towards--he’d wanted to stay. To be. 

In some fucked up way, he wanted to remain in that bed and say Tubbo could go fuck himself and that the consequences to that would be so, so worth it. He’s wrong.

The pit in his stomach is forming and it coils tightly around him, almost choking him from underneath his own skin.

_ I should’ve gotten one more drink. _

And it’s fucked up that he thinks that’s the answer.

There are no bike racks in front of the mysterious apartment, and his drunken mind supplies him with the best plan imaginable: shoving it in a bush. It crinkles the poor thing, snapping branches and pricking leaves, but Schlatt muses--

_ Oh, grow up. It all gets worse from here. _

\--and makes his way in.

The attendant at the front desk waves at him, but he doesn’t live here; if that isn’t sickening enough, he knows exactly where he’s going. He takes the elevator because stairs make him woozy and nauseous.

...Amazingly, he’s waiting for him the moment the elevator door opens. Schlatt is prepared to walk the halls, finding the correct number and making that knock of shame, but the moment the metal doors pry themselves back… there he is.

“There you are,” He says, and Schlatt either can’t make out his features or doesn’t want to. “I was starting to get worried.”

The thought of anyone being worried about him would make him keen were he not clamming up. “Keys?” He asks easily, eyes hazy and it’s intoxicating to even look at the other.

The man holds up the lanyard, letting it dangle from a finger. His keys sit attached at the end of it, the fabric holder covered in the designs of some cartoon from a simpler time. Schlatt reaches to snatch them and be on his way but-

He tugs them back, just slightly, enough to make him stumble. Schlatt’s hands are empty.

“Are you okay, J?” The creature asks, voice dripping saccharine and coating his ears with its falsities. “Do you need to come in?”

“‘m fine,” He shoots back strongly, some pocket of confidence released in him as he glares up at the other’s eyes. “Look,” He says, trying not to sound slurred or easy to manipulate. “I can’t stay out tonight, so-”

The man frowns, and it shatters him. He hates it when he frowns.

“But,” He begins. “But, I missed you this morning. Shouldn’t we talk?”

_ Punch him. Fucking punch him. _

“There’s not anything to talk about?” He says, although it sounds like a question; this morning is so far away and he’s beginning to feel like he is above himself, puppeting some body that isn’t his into doing things he didn’t want to do.

The man hesitates… but returns the keys; it is what he came here for, after all.

Schlatt wraps them around his wrist once, then twists it and does it again; the keys feel safe in his hands like a weapon and he can finally get out of here. He forces, “Thank you,” and it sounds bitter. “I should get going.”

He hits the button for the elevator, which had closed in their brief little chat. When it swings open, he steps back into it, never removing his gaze from the other figure. He reaches to press the first-floor button-

“I’ll come with you,” The man says, smiling as he steps in as well.

_ Oh fuck. Oh fuck.  _

Schlatt’s chest heaves at the thought, but he can’t be abrasive; he can’t say no to someone who knows exactly how to tear him apart, and that is terrifying. He swallows his fears and just nods, reaching with a shaky hand--and when did his fucking hands start shaking?--to press the button.

The ride down can’t last longer than a minute, but to the inebriated man, it feels like a lifetime. He angles his body straight ahead, becoming rigid, and only allows his gaze to flicker up into the mirror to stare at him.

It’s… uncomfortably uneventful.

There’s a ding as the door opens to reach the first floor, and Schlatt goes to walk out-

And he’s tugged back in quickly, losing his own strength to stay rigid as the man hits the ‘close-door' button once again. 

With an elevator-rattling  **_slam_ ** , Schlatt is against the wall. He stares up at this, this  _ captor  _ drunkenly, keys dropped as the other towers over him with an intense glare. Is something… is something going to happen?

_ Please, God, get me out of here. _

If the elevator’s descent felt like an eternity, this felt like purgatory, because Schlatt was surely dead at the hands of this other clutching his shoulder and keeping him pinned against the cool metal of the elevator carriage. Believe it or not, he  _ whimpers  _ at where he is, and his last thoughts are of Tubbo before this guy can hurry up and tear him apart. 

...Nothing happens.

The man looks him up and down with a tilted head, and lets him go. The doors to the elevator open. “Bye, J,” He calls, reaching and handing him his keys once again before a harsh shove throws the other out. Schlatt goes tumbling, heart pounding in his ears and struggling to breathe, and the doors are shut before he can even respond.

He picks up his dignity alongside himself, shuffling back out of the apartment complex and into the sweet embrace of nighttime, bright lights keeping the place illuminated as if the monster is lurking in the dark and isn’t lurking in an elevator carriage going up, up, up.

He goes to grab his bike, but doesn’t take off riding it towards Phil’s. He walks alongside it, slow, keeping his keys shoved through his fingers, ready to fight.

He doesn’t check his phone, hates the distraction, but the altercation makes him think of those unresponded texts--and he can’t quite go on anymore.

At some point he starts crying; little and bitter crocodile tears come out because he’s scared, and then suddenly it’s full-blown; he is the sad drunk walking home after the party in the middle of the night.

A taxi goes careening past him, like so many other cars, and he just walks, and he just cries, and his foggy head can’t even figure out what for. Imagine that; not knowing, but feeling everything at once. 

Schlatt just wants to go  _ home,  _ to hide underneath his blanket until tomorrow can come. His hands are fidgeting, shaking, thrumming against his thighs and he hates it, hates this, hates everyone and everything.

...Except Tubbo.

Tubbo, his sweet little bumblebee that never hurt anyone, never did anything that wasn’t worthwhile, understood the intricacies of life and the importance of a well-used crayon. He cries more thinking of him, wet tears stinging his cheeks and making everything itchy and uncomfortable. 

He makes it to Phil’s apartment by some miracle, raising his hand to knock when once again he is startled out of it by the knowledge that Phil was waiting for him; the door opens.

Schlatt is a mess and looks it too, eyes sparkling with hurt and hate. The clock behind Phil’s head reads two a.m., and he wants to coil in on himself when the tired man tugs him into the apartment, shutting and locking the door behind him.

“Go sit, Schlatt,” He orders gently, and Schlatt, dumb, can’t protest. 

For a moment he is left alone in the dimly lit room. He sits on the couch, pulling his legs up until he’s sitting criss-crossed, leaning over his own legs exhaustedly. The side table next to him has a lamp and book on it--the lamp on, the book opened and page marked. Phil really had stayed up to wait for him.

Like an angel, he appears in Schlatt’s vision again, with water and painkillers that Schlatt takes gratefully. Crouched in front of him, Phil can’t help but reach, brushing a thick wave out of the other’s face; he’s always been a sort-of touchy guy. Always understanding. 

_ Please keep me,  _ his thoughts from earlier echo. He sniffles and wipes his eyes.

“Tubs is asleep in Wilbur’s room,” He notes gently, making small talk while taking the other’s hand and tracing figures into it gently with his thumbs. 

Schlatt nods, but can’t bring himself to speak. Instead, his lip quivers and for reasons he doesn’t understand, he might start up crying all over again.

Despite this, Phil continues. “I, uh--originally had him with Tommy, like they asked. But they weren’t goin’ to sleep. Just kept talking and talking,” He says, filling the other in on the night’s escapades. “Tubbo’s got a new friend, Rainbow or something silly like that. Might even be imaginary. Tommy thinks he’s going to abandon him, poor thing…”

And so on. 

Schlatt can’t muster words, he just can’t, but feels compelled to when finally, Phil runs out of things to say. Instead he just looks up at Schlatt from the place he’d given himself, still rubbing patterns into his hands and looking gently at the other. It feels like disappointment or understanding or both, and he finally yanks his hand away; Phil’s hands drop to the ground, and he finally stands, adjusting the robe that’s hung loosely around his figure. “He’ll be asleep again by the time we get home,” Schlatt slurs, “If I just go slow enough.”

He tries to stand, but Phil gently pushes him back down with a touch to his shoulder; the sudden contact makes Schlatt grow rigid again.

“It’s awful late, Schlatt,” He suggests, although what exactly he’s suggesting hangs unsaid in the air.

He’s never…

_ I’ve never stayed here before. Not like this… this isn’t right. _

“I can take care of myself,” He protests, although his eyes are heavy, and his back hurts miserably, and he’s done enough pedaling on that rinky-dink bike to last him a while.

Phil’s voice wavers slightly but remains both gentle and firm. “I know you can. Stay for the boys, then?” He asks, tilting his head in the other’s direction. “It’ll be like… a sleepover.”

Schlatt can’t come up with a reason not to, and it’s obvious on his face. So… he nods drunkenly, up and down and up and down--and it makes Phil relax for the first time.

“I’ll get you some bedding. Are you alright out here?”

_ I’m a professional couch surfer, Phil. Don’t worry about me. _

He nods again, shucking his near-dead phone from his pocket and seeing a new notification from Puffy. Phil disappears down the hall once more and he reads it, or, at least. Tries to.

**_Hey, J_ **

**_I know you’re not going to respond but if you could just tell me you’re alright it’d be great_ **

**_You’ll hate me for this but when I made you share your location that one time you forgot to turn it off so_ **

**_I check in_ **

**_Saw where you were just please tell me nothing’s wrong ok?_ **

The coil in his stomach snaps, and there are tears in his eyes again. He taps back a response that’s 80% gibberish and 20% apology, flinging the phone to the ground with exhaustion, contorting and coiling in on himself on a couch he doesn’t even own.

...He’s asleep before Phil can return with a set of blankets and a pillow. It all fades away.

**Author's Note:**

> let's talk about this chapter!
> 
> tumblr @channexmogar  
> twt @channexmogar  
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